Eye of the Beholder (Stone Springs Book 1)

by Gracie Ruth Mitchell

  “Great,” he says, his voice light. “I’ll see you later.”

  I might put too much thought into how I look that evening, considering I’m just quizzing him on punctuation…and considering I’ve been trying to get his friend to like me. It’s silly, but I don’t want him to think I look like a slob or something, especially since we’ve been in this weird funk. I wear a cute pair of boots over my skinny jeans, because it’s been snowing, with an oversized sweater and a scarf.

  When Cohen opens the door after I knock, I go in and pull my boots off, careful not to let snow get anywhere but their entrance mat. He turns and goes wordlessly up the stairs, and I follow. When we get to his room—it feels like it’s been forever since I’ve been here—he closes the door behind us. Then he turns to me. Is he taller than he was? He’s definitely more handsome. His crooked nose just makes him look rugged rather than funny looking. I don’t know how that’s possible, but I can conclusively say that it’s true.

  He’s just staring at me, his dark eyes intense, his back against the door.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” I say, my voice slightly breathless. I don’t know what to do or where to sit or what to think when he has that look in his eyes.

  Like he’s about to kiss me into oblivion.

  “How’s Jack?” he says, and I blink in surprise. That’s not what I expected to hear at all.

  “Um,” I say. “He’s good? I guess?”

  “How was Florentino’s?”

  I swallow. “It was fine.” What’s going on?

  “Still going out with him?” Cohen says, his eyes never leaving mine. And then, before I can answer, he’s moving. He casually makes his way toward me until he’s less than a foot away.

  I swallow. “I think so,” I say, my voice squeaking—surprise, surprise. “We’re not going out so much as…going out.”

  Cohen raises one eyebrow. He has a freckle above that eyebrow, I can see.

  “I don’t think we’re dating,” I say, trying to clarify. “We’ve just been on a few dates.”

  He nods, stepping even closer to me. “When are you going out with him again?”

  His lips look so soft. I sort of want to—

  “Right,” he says, the word more an exhale than actual speech, and I jump. He steps back suddenly, and I’m surprised to see a smile at the corner of his lips. There’s relief evident in his eyes, although I don’t know why.

  I frown as I try to collect my thoughts. “What the heck, Cohen. What was that?”

  “What do you think it was?” he says, sitting in his desk chair.

  Seduction. But I’m not going to say that. “You can’t just do stuff like that to people.”

  “What did I do?” he says, his voice calm. He pulls a stack of flash cards out of his desk drawer and then looks up at me.

  “You can’t stand that close to someone,” I say. I don’t understand my sudden irritation, but it’s definitely there.

  Cohen unwinds the rubber band from his flash cards. “I wanted to see how you feel about Jack.”

  “And you couldn’t just ask me?” I say.

  “I could, but you could lie,” he says. He still sounds annoyingly calm.

  I throw my hands up in the air in frustration. “So getting in my face was the better option? Did you get your answer?”

  And that obnoxious smile is back at the corner of his mouth. “I did,” he says.

  I wait in silence for a second, but Cohen doesn’t say anything else, so I say, “And?”

  “And you didn’t back away from me. You couldn’t tell me when you’re seeing him again. Your voice squeaked. And,” he says, “you were staring at my lips. You’re lukewarm toward Jack at best.” He shrugs. “I just wanted to know.”

  I clench my teeth. “Then you should have asked,” I say. I’m not going to dignify the rest of that nonsense with an answer.

  “You would have said you really like him,” Cohen says, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on his bed.

  “Because I do,” I say, shoving his feet back off the bed. “Don’t be a jerk. You’re making me forget that I missed you while we were avoiding each other for reasons I don’t fully understand.”

  Cohen stops in the middle of trying to maneuver his feet back onto the bed and looks at me. Then he smiles. “Did you really?”

  “Yes,” I say, tears pricking at my eyes. I sit on the edge of his bed. “I missed you.” My voice is softer than I intended, which is highly embarrassing.

  Cohen’s smile changes into something I haven’t seen before. It’s hesitant—vulnerable. I like it. “I missed you too,” he confesses. He leans forward and wipes away the single tear that’s making its way down my cheek, and a pleasant warmth spreads through me, making me feel stupidly giddy. He just looks at me, and for a second it seems like he’s going to say something more, but then he holds up the flashcards. “Ready?” he says.

  I take a deep breath. It’s not as subtle as I hope. “Ready,” I say. He tosses me the flashcards, and I let him put his feet back on the bed.

  We go through punctuation and parts of speech, and he only misses a few the first time around. The second time through the cards, he gets them all.

  “You’ll do great,” I say, standing up to leave.

  “If you tell anyone I said I missed you—”

  “Too late,” I say, grinning, hoping to play it off with casualness. “I’m going to write it on a poster. ‘Cohen missed Wet Willy.’ I’m going to take it to all your games—”

  He shoves my shoulder playfully, and I laugh.

  “I’ll walk you home,” he says, and I raise my eyebrows.

  “Afraid I’ll get lost?”

  He grins. “It’s a long way from my house to yours.”

  Like I’m going to say no.

  The December air is frigid, and I can see my breath. Cohen and I walk in silence, but I don’t mind. And I’m not sure why he’s walking with me, but I don’t mind that, either.

  My front path is narrow, so I slip ahead of Cohen to walk in front of him when we get there. I’m almost to my front door—but out of nowhere, I feel something cold and wet splat on the back of my head.

  Oh, no. He did not just throw a snowball at my head.

  I turn around slowly to look at him. He’s laughing so hard his face is turning red—or maybe that’s the cold.

  If he thinks he can throw a snowball at my head and get away with it, he’s sorely mistaken.

  I form a snowball with my bare hands—not a great feeling, but I’m willing to suffer in the name of retribution—and then throw it at him. My aim usually isn’t great, but I’m close enough that the snow finds its target: Cohen’s face.

  I grin smugly. “That will—”

  I break off as he steps forward, hauls me over his shoulder with ease—like I’m a sack of flour—and makes his way back toward my yard. I beat my fists against his back and try to kick my legs, but I’m laughing too hard to put any real effort into it.

  We reach the sidewalk, and Cohen dumps me into the snowbank by the mailbox.

  “Oh!” I say, gasping between my laughs. “Cold. Cold.”

  Cohen leans forward, his hands on his knees, looking at me with wicked amusement on his face. “You were saying?” he says.

  Let’s see. If I do this just right…

  I lurch upward as quickly as I can and manage to grab the front of his shirt. He teeters off balance and falls face-first into the snow next to me. I quickly scoop up as much snow as I can in my arms and pile it on top of him. Then I haul myself up and brush off, dancing from foot to foot from the cold. My shirt and jeans are wet, but not as soaked as his will be. I grin and head toward the front door.

  When Cohen extricates himself from the snow, I’m already halfway to the door. He holds his hands up in a sign of surrender and then brushes himself off.

  “You started it,” I point out.

  He grins. “I would do it again.”

  “I bet you would,” I s
ay. I push my front door open and jerk my chin at it. “Come on,” I say.

  He could just go back to his house. I know that. But…then he wouldn’t be with me.

  And I don’t want him to go.

  I sigh as I watch Cohen come toward me, stomping his feet hard and rubbing his hands over his head to get the snow out of his hair. What am I going to do about him?

  “I’m home,” I call when I step inside. “Cohen’s with me. We’re going to my room.”

  “Hi, Cohen,” comes my dad’s cheery voice. “Haven’t seen you in a while. How’ve you been?”

  “Good,” Cohen calls back, smiling even though he can’t see my dad. Then he looks at me, his eyebrows raised. “Your room?” He grins. “Isn’t this all moving a little fast?”

  “Shut up,” I say. “I’m just getting you a towel and a dry shirt.”

  All things he could find at his own house. But he doesn’t say anything about it.

  “Leave the door open, sweetie,” my mom calls.

  My face turns red, but Cohen probably can’t tell if my face is anywhere as red as his already. “I will,” I say. I pull off my shoes, and Cohen does the same. He follows me silently to my room, and I feel suddenly nervous. What if he doesn’t like it?

  I mean, it doesn’t actually matter. But…maybe it matters to me.

  I take a deep breath, stop in front of my door, and open it. “Welcome to my sanctuary,” I say, and we step in.

  24

  Cohen

  I don’t know entirely what’s happening with Mina and Jack, and I don’t really want to know details, but I do know that they’re not exchanging vows any time soon. Because a girl head-over-heels for a guy doesn’t look at someone else the way Mina looked at me. She also doesn’t invite me to her house for something I could just as easily find at my own. I have my own towels and my own dry shirts. She knows that. And yet here I am, right outside her bedroom.

  So, as much as I’ll keep telling Lydia that nothing’s going on, I’ll also keep an eye on that situation. Because I’m pretty much past the point where I can convince myself I’m not feeling anything for Mina. I am feeling things. A lot of things. Some of them are familiar—like the swoop in my gut when I saw her in that ridiculous dress of Lydia’s or the frankly surprising surge of jealousy when she said she and Jack were still going on dates.

  But some of them are new. I have never felt anything like what I felt when she said she’d missed me. It’s stupid, I know. But it made me…happy. Just really happy. I’ve been happy before, obviously. But this was different.

  And I’ve never felt anything like the sadness that accompanied the jealousy I felt about her and Jack. I’ve been trying not to think about it. Sadness isn’t really my thing.

  I’ve also never wanted to kiss someone this badly. I try to avoid thinking about that, too. I’m not going to make a move while she’s trying to get things going with Jack. But if that doesn’t work out…well, all bets are off.

  When Mina swings open her bedroom door, I don’t know what to expect. But as soon as she turns on the light, I can see that the room is quintessentially her. I step in, smiling as I look around. There are flowers everywhere—on her bedspread and in actual vases around the room—and the walls are a pale yellow.

  I turn to her. “I didn’t know if your room would be like this”—I gesture around—“or if it would be some unfortunate combination of grays and whites.” I’m about to sit on the edge of her bed before I remember my jeans are wet, so I remain standing instead

  “Shut up,” she says, but she smiles. She opens the top drawer of the dresser in the corner and begins to dig through it. “You, I believe, are the only person who’s ever been in here. Other than family, I mean.”

  I grin. “I’m honored.” It comes out like I’m joking, but I’m not.

  She tosses a shirt to me, and I catch it. I hold it up. It’s a t-shirt that looks like it might actually fit me. It is, predictably, gray.

  I frown. “I thought Lydia told you to get rid of all your baggy clothes.”

  “Well, don’t tell her, but I kept some,” she says. She brushes past me and goes out into the hall. As soon as she leaves, I pull my soaked shirt off over my head. While I wait for her to come back, I look more closely at her room. There’s a big poster over her desk that says, “You are enough,” and next to that is what looks like a list. It’s titled “To Do.” When I see the items on the list, I can’t help my smile. My smile widens when I see a piece of paper on her desk—a labeled diagram of a football field. Has she been practicing football terminology?

  Mina comes back a minute later with a towel. “And here’s—Cohen! Your shirt!”

  “I can’t put on your shirt until I take mine off,” I say. I don’t bother to hide my grin.

  Maybe I’m showing off a little. Football keeps me in good shape. And she notices.

  “You’re checking me out right now,” I say, my grin widening.

  “Yeah, well, you’ve done your fair share of that,” she says, her eyes lingering. Then she looks back to me and hands me the towel.

  “I have not,” I say.

  “Oh, don’t lie,” she says. “The black dress? The tank top? You’re not subtle about it. Now put the shirt on.”

  “The black dress was a special case,” I say, grinning.

  “And the pajamas?” she says, folding her arms over her chest and raising a skeptical eyebrow.

  I swallow, thinking of her in my car after the corn maze, remembering the gentle slope of her neck and bare shoulders. “A very special case. Normally I’m very subtle. I’ll try to do better in the future.”

  She shakes her head. “No. Guys aren’t subtle. You’re no exception.”

  I’m not going to respond to that. Instead I gesture at the list I noticed. “Speak your mind. Remember your worth. Come out of your comfort zone. Your goals, I assume?”

  Mina’s face turns red. “Oh,” she says. “Yeah. Something like that.”

  I nod, eyeing her. “I think those are good goals.”

  She doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she’s pleased, if not a little embarrassed.

  “Are you going to change?” I say, changing the subject so she won’t feel awkward. “You’re just as soaked as I am.”

  She shrugs, looking relieved. “I’ll change once you leave.”

  I pull her shirt over my head, and I immediately catch the faint, lingering scent of her perfume. Does she spray it on her clothes? “It smells like you,” I say.

  “Oh,” she says, her cheeks reddening slightly. “Yeah. It’s potpourri. I keep it in my drawers. It’s the same scent as my perfume,” she says, pointing to the purple bottle on top of the dresser. “Sorry.”

  “I like it,” I say before I think better of it. I take the towel she gave me and rub it over my head.

  “Better?” she says.

  “A lot better,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “Here,” she says, stepping closer to me. “Your hair is sticking up all over the place.” She reaches up and tries to flatten my hair a bit, but I’m sure it doesn’t work.

  I don’t say anything; it feels good.

  “Well, that’s hopeless,” she says, and to my disappointment she lets her hands drop and steps back. “Also,” she says, sounding nervous. “I just wanted to tell you that I applied to that school I told you about. And I don’t think I would have if you hadn’t encouraged me. So…thank you.”

  I smile at her. “You did? That’s awesome, Mina.”

  She smiles back. “I mean, it’s probably a long shot. But you were right. I would regret not at least trying.”

  I nod, looking around her room again. “Good,” I say, and my eyes fall on a picture of Jesus. He’s sitting with a little girl whose eyes are blue and brown. I smile.

  “Well, you should go,” Mina says, and I look back to her. “I’m not really supposed to have guys in my room. That rule courtesy of my parents after raising Ruby.”

  I snort. “I bet.” Then I p
oint at the shirt she gave me. “Thanks for this. I’ll get it back to you soon.”

  “That’s fine,” she says, following me after I walk out of her room. “When is your test?”

  “Saturday,” I say, a stab of anxiety piercing my insides.

  “You’re ready, Cohen,” she says as though she knows how I’m feeling. “I really think you are. You’ve been doing well on the practice English and reading sections.”

  “I hope so,” I say. When we reach the front door, I shove my feet into my still-wet shoes.

  “Well, my fingers are crossed and prayers are being sent.”

  I smile. “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She nods and waves as I open the front door, and I step out. It feels colder out here when she’s not here with me.

  ***

  The ACT, as it turns out, is not as bad as I remember it being. I feel fairly confident on the math and science sections, just like I did the first time around, but this time I also feel better about the English and reading sections. It’s a long three hours, especially since about thirty minutes in I realize that this means I won’t be studying with Mina anymore. That causes an uncomfortable sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach.

  I also can’t help but think about how soon winter break will be here. I’m ready for a break.

  When I’m finally done and driving back home, I call Mina.

  “Did you finish?” she says as soon as she picks up.

  “Yeah,” I say, smiling.

  “And?” she says.

  My smile grows as I turn into the neighborhood. “I think it went okay. I don’t want to say it went well, because I don’t want to jinx it—”

  “You know that’s not a thing, right?”

  “But I’m cautiously optimistic,” I say, ignoring her. “Hey, I’m going to run through someplace and grab food in just a minute. Want to come? I can tell you more about the test.”

  “Oh,” she says, and she suddenly sounds awkward. “I’m actually waiting for Jack. We’re going to go skating.”

  I’m immediately assaulted with unwanted images of Jack holding Mina’s hand as they skate blissfully around an empty rink while romantic music serenades them.